by M C Beaton
“Oh, they will indeed,” said Agatha sweetly.
Wilkes met her in the corridor. “Come in,” he snapped. “What mad idea have you had now?”
Patrick and Agatha followed him into the interview room. “Show him that photo, Patrick,” said Agatha.
Patrick put the printed-out photo on the desk in front of Wilkes. “That,” said Agatha, “is a photo of Dr. Bairns, Amy Bairns’s husband. Recognise the face?”
Wilkes shouted, “Wait there!” and rushed from the room. They could hear him frantically shouting instructions. Agatha went to the window. Police were erupting out of the police station and heading off in the direction of The George Hotel. Other police cars were racing off. Patrick joined her.
“Just look at them,” he said. “There’s a funny quotation I heard once about a knight who jumped on his horse and rode off madly in all directions.”
“Why did Amy come here, of all places?” wondered Agatha.
“Probably thought it would be the last place anyone would expect to see her. Maybe she wanted revenge on you. She seems to be very close to her brother. Twins are usually close. They’re probably long gone by now.”
“Did they never suspect the husband of having been in on it?”
“Not for a moment. Good Republican, contributes annually to the Philadelphia police fund. Model citizen.”
“I wonder why Tom Courtney wanted me to find out the murderer. Did he think I was such an amateur I’d never guess it was him?”
“Maybe he had such a high opinion of himself he thought you would fall for him.”
“Then he must be mad,” said Agatha, feeling a guilty flush rising to her cheeks.
“By God! Look! They’ve got them,” said Patrick. Amy and her husband were being marched across the square by a posse of police officers and detectives.
“It’s time the agency got a bit of publicity.” Agatha grinned. “Let’s go out and meet the press.”
Patrick walked to the door and then turned round in surprise. “It’s locked!”
“They can’t do this!” protested Agatha. “They don’t want me out there explaining what a fool the police made of themselves.”
She began to hammer on the door. It was finally unlocked and opened by Wilkes.
“I want you to leave again by the back door, Mrs. Raisin,” he said. “I will talk to the press.”
“If it hadn’t been for me, you’d never have got them,” howled Agatha.
“Look, unless you leave quietly,” said Wilkes, “I will make sure that you do not get any further help from us.”
“What! When have you ever helped me?”
“Do as you’re told. Just go. Detective Sergeant Wong will escort you out.”
At the back exit, Agatha said furiously to Bill, “I’m surprised at you, going along with this.”
“What do you expect me to do?” asked Bill. “Disobey orders? Look, as soon as I can get away, I’ll come to your home and tell you as much as I can.”
“I’m not going to creep away,” said Agatha when Bill had left. “It’s a free country. Let’s go round the front and stand at the back of the crowd. I’d like to hear what Wilkes is going to say.”
The press were gathering outside. Wilkes was taking his time. More and more press began to arrive and a television van hurtled into the square and parked.
A crowd of onlookers crowded in along with the press. “We’ll just stand at the back,” said Agatha.
Agatha’s feet were beginning to hurt as an hour passed and then another half hour before Wilkes appeared in front of police headquarters, flanked by Chief Superintendent Jack Petrie on one side, and a beaming Detective Sergeant Collins on the other.
“This is only a brief statement,” said Wilkes. “A man and woman have been arrested in connection with the murder of Miriam Courtney. There will be a further statement tomorrow. That is all. Thank you for waiting.”
“Just a minute!” cried a loud voice. Agatha stood on tiptoe and recognised local reporter, Jimmy Torrance, pushing his way to the front. “Detective Sergeant Collins told me earlier that private detective Agatha Raisin had made a right fool of herself by getting the wrong woman arrested. Was it the wrong woman or was she right all along?”
“I was right!” shouted Agatha.
The press turned round and began to surround her. Wilkes turned to Collins and said grimly, “Follow me.”
Agatha, feeling that she had a legitimate reason to defend herself, gave the assembled press her version, carefully leaving out anything that might be regarded later as sub judice. She simply stated that she had recognised a woman who she believed was a suspect in a murder case and had called on the police for help. She, Agatha, had subsequently been told she had made a terrible mistake. But her detective, Patrick Mulligan, had found a photograph that proved she had been right all along. Agatha ended tactfully by saying they would need to contact the police for further details.
Chapter Eight
It was late that evening before Bill Wong arrived at Agatha’s cottage. In her kitchen, he found waiting Toni, Patrick and Phil, all eager to hear his news.
“This is outside the call of duty,” said Bill wearily, “but you have done me a great favour, Agatha. Collins has been suspended from duty. I hate that awful woman.”
“She’ll get away with it,” said Agatha. “She won’t be the first detective to be caught off guard by a reporter.”
“Oh, it gets worse. Let me sit down, get me a coffee and I’ll tell you what I can.”
Once he was settled at the kitchen table with a fresh cup of coffee, Bill began.
“Amy confessed to everything. She completely broke down. Her husband’s alibi was false. Dressed as a man, she flew to the Cayman Islands as her brother while he, in the guise of a woman, and under Mrs. Temple’s name, flew to London. He did the murder, flew back, and then flew again under his own name.”
“But why so elaborate a plot?” asked Agatha. “I mean, they could have waited patiently until she visited the States and somehow made it look like a mugging.”
“Both brother and sister have records of mental breakdowns. Tom Courtney was believed to be a schizophrenic.”
“But if Tom Courtney’s the murderer, why did he hire me?”
“He called at police headquarters and talked to Collins at one point. She did not report it. He told her he had received a phone call from his mother before her death, saying she had employed a private detective to look into Sunday’s murder and who was this private detective? Collins had said that you were some sort of local menace who did more to impede the police in their enquiries than anything else. So he thought it would look good if he hired you as well, and yet not put himself at any risk.”
Agatha blushed. She had nearly gone to bed with a madman and murderer who thought she was a failure at her job.
“I know you’re furious,” said Bill, taking her high colour for anger, “but it was just another nail in Collins’s coffin, I think. Still, it does seem certain that the Courtneys had nothing to do with the murder of Sunday, so we’re back to square one on that case. Anyway, Amy considered the face change a good investment.”
“There are no plastic surgeons in prison,” said Toni. “I wonder what she’ll look like by the time the case gets to court. Oh, do you want me to start showing Simon the ropes? I haven’t seen him today.”
“I’ve decided not to employ him,” lied Agatha, and then felt conscience-stricken as Toni gave a sad little “Oh.”
“Why?” asked Phil. “He seemed keen.”
“I don’t feel like going into it at the moment,” said Agatha.
“Do you want me to start ferreting around Odley Cruesis?” asked Phil.
“No!” said Agatha, and seeing the looks of surprise said, “Sorry I shouted at you. But we’ve cases to clear up, and with this latest publicity we’ll probably get a lot more. Has Tom Courtney been extradited yet?”
“Still waiting, but now we’ve got Amy, I suppose it won’t
be long.”
Bill’s phone rang. He walked out of the room, shouting over his shoulder, “Keep quiet, all of you. If Wilkes knew I was here, he would have a fit.”
He came back after only a few moments, saying, “I’ve got to go. Full enquiry. They’re dead.”
“Who?” asked a chorus of voices.
“Both of them, Amy and her husband. Took poison.”
“How did they get poison?” asked Agatha.
“They had cyanide in a button on each of their jackets. I’m off.”
“Snakes and bastards,” said Agatha. “That wipes me out of the headlines.”
“Cheer up,” said Patrick. “It’s too late for the morning editions.”
“So it is! Champagne anyone?”
On the following Sunday, Toni decided to go to church in Odley Cruesis. She could not understand why Agatha appeared to have lost interest in the case. She thought that a visit to the church when everyone thought things had all settled down might give her a feel of the place. But remembering the attack on Roy Silver, she decided to go in disguise.
Agatha had a box of various disguises in the office. Toni let herself into the office with her key, found the box and selected a black wig and fitted it over her short blond hair. The black wig transformed her appearance. She was wearing a conservative blue linen suit and flat heels. Toni surveyed herself in the mirror above the filing cabinets and thought she looked the very picture of a churchgoer.
It was a perfect day with the beauty of the rural Cotswolds stretched out under a large sky. Because of all the recent rain and the humid heat, the vegetation around was thicker than ever, turning the country lanes into green tunnels.
She was initially surprised to find the church was full but recognised what she considered to be a lot of visitors. No doubt the renewed publicity about Miriam’s murder had bought out what Toni privately damned as “the rubberneckers,” people who always flocked to the scene of a murder or car crash out of ghoulish interest.
She sat in a pew at the very back of the church, and as the sermon went on, said a silent prayer for the soul of Sharon. Toni was not sure that she really believed in anything, but there was something tranquil about the old church, despite the influx of visitors, as if the very stones held memories of the peace they had brought to the worried and suffering over the centuries.
She stood up when the service ended and went out into the churchyard. Toni watched people leaving. She recognised Mrs. Carrie Brother as she stopped to talk to the vicar. Then out came the two elderly couples, the Summers and the Beagles, followed after a short while by Tilly Glossop. Now hadn’t Tilly Glossop been the one who had been photographed having sex with the mayor? She could do with some more investigating. And then came May Dinwoody, leaning on the arm of . . . Simon Black!
Then Penelope Timson appeared and spoke to Simon and May and led them off towards the vicarage. Simon said something and turned and ran back into the church. He came out a few moments later, passed close to Toni and dropped a piece of paper and then ran towards the vicarage.
Toni picked up the paper. “Meet me on Dover’s Hill at three this afternoon.”
Toni had visited Dover’s Hill before to watch the annual Cotswold Olimpicks. The hill is a natural amphitheatre about one mile away from Chipping Campden. She remembered being particularly amused by the ancient sport of shin kicking, practised in Britain since the early seventeenth century. It was considered too painful a sport and was banished early in the twentieth century but brought back in 1951. Unlike the older games, where competitors used to harden their shins with hammers and wear iron-capped boots, the modern contestants wear long trousers with straw padding underneath. The trick is to wrestle your opponent to the ground while kicking him in the shins. Other sports include an obstacle race, falconry and morris dancing before the final torchlight procession to the square in Chipping Campden where everyone dances the night away.
That year’s games had already been held in May. There were only a few tourists in the parking area at the top of Dover’s Hill when Toni drove up, the world recession and a combination of the swine flu outbreak and the strong pound keeping most of them away.
She walked to the top of the amphitheatre and admired the view. Some people were having picnics on the grass. A very English smell of hot tea wafted up the hill.
She walked back to the car park and saw Simon driving up in an old Morris Minor. He signalled to her and she went to join him, climbing into the passenger seat.
“What are you doing in Odley?” asked Toni.
“I’m working undercover,” said Simon.
“With Agatha’s permission?”
“Yes. She doesn’t want anyone to know. I’m staying with May Dinwoody as a lodger. Don’t tell Agatha you’ve seen me or I’ll get my first black mark.”
“I won’t, but what’s your cover?”
“I’m taking time off after my parents’ deaths and I am interested in early English church architecture. I told the vicar I couldn’t stay for lunch as I had an urgent appointment and got out of there before he could ask what the appointment was.”
“How are you getting on?”
“Fine. Fortunately, Giles, the vicar, likes to hear the sound of his own voice. He preaches on and on so all I have to do is listen. Then May Dinwoody makes toys to sell at the markets so I’m helping her. We’ll be at Morton market on Tuesday.”
“Does anyone in the office know what you are doing?”
“No.”
“Then you’d better be careful. Sometimes, if it’s quiet at the office, Phil Marshall goes shopping at the market. If I were you, I’d wear a hat and sunglasses, just in case. And talking of disguises, how one earth did you recognise me under this wig?”
Simon laughed. “Once seen, never forgotten. Any hope of seeing you again?”
“I wouldn’t like to at the moment. I just hope I haven’t risked anything by meeting up with you.”
Simon glanced around. “Nothing but tourists. Don’t worry. I know—I might take next Sunday off, say I’m visiting relatives and meet you in Mircester.”
“I’ll give you my phone number,” said Toni.
“I’ve already got it. I took it off the files in the office along with your mobile number.”
“So why didn’t you just ring my mobile when you saw me in the graveyard?”
“Think about it, Toni. Everyone would have turned and had a look at you when your sacrilegious phone started ringing amongst the gravestones.”
“See you.” Toni got out of Simon’s elderly car and got into her own car. It was hot from the sun beating down on it. She opened the windows, took off the black wig and put it on the seat beside her. As she started up the engine and twisted her neck to reverse out, she had a funny feeling of being watched. She got out of the car again and looked around. Nothing but the usual tourists and a busload of pensioners on a day out from Wales. Evans Luxury Tours, Cardiff was emblazoned on the side of a bus that looked as decrepit as the passengers stiffly climbing back on board.
Toni was just about to drive off again when her mobile phone rang. It was Simon. “In all the excitement of meeting you,” he said, “I forgot to tell you about an awful article in the Sunday Cable about Agatha.”
Stopping at a newsagent’s in Chipping Campden, Toni bought a copy of the Sunday Cable.
She skimmed through it until she came to a large head-and-shoulders photo of Agatha. The headline read: ENGLAND’S ANSWER TO INSPECTOR CLOUSEAU.
It was a cruelly funny article that started with Agatha’s first attempt to marry James Lacey, which was aborted when her husband, whom she had presumed dead, turned up to stop the ceremony. Then followed details about how many times the police had had to rescue Agatha at great cost to the taxpayer. She was damned as an amateur who bumbled about from case to case, smoking, drinking and bullying until she frightened someone into attacking her. The author was a reporter called Dan Palmer.
Toni decided to go and see how Agatha was co
ping with this thunderbolt.
She met Charles on the doorstep. “I am here to do a bit of hand-holding,” he said. “Seen the article?”
Toni nodded. Charles rang the bell. There was no reply. Charles opened the letter box and shouted through it, “It’s me, Charles, with Toni.”
They waited and then the door opened. “Come in,” said Agatha abruptly. “I suppose you’ve both seen the Cable. Come through to the garden.”
Charles and Toni sat down in garden chairs. Agatha was wearing an old housedress and her face was not made-up.
“Are you going to sue?” asked Charles.
“I can’t. Every occasion when the police came to my rescue is correct, including that last one which involved Scotland Yard and the River Thames Police and the Coast Guard.”
“But the names he called you!” exclaimed Toni.
“You will note, he says, ‘In my opinion. . . .’ Can’t sue someone over an opinion.”
“What did you ever do to him?” asked Charles. “No. Don’t turn your head away. Out with it!”
“Okay. It’s like this. When I was doing PR for a swimwear company, I invited the press to the launch of the new line. For swimwear you get male reporters as well as female for obvious reasons. He was one of them. I caught him hiding behind a screen in the dressing rooms, holding a camera over the top and taking pictures of the models undressing. I knocked back the screen and got one of my own photographers to snap him. I sent the photo with a complaint to his editor. He was on the Express at the time and lost his job.”
“Was he supposed to take pictures like that?” asked Toni.
“No, it was for his own salacious amusement. He had a good photographer in the audience whose job was to get some pretty pictures for the paper’s colour supplement. This could ruin me.”
“He seems like a perv,” said Toni. “I know. Let’s get something on him.”
“How?”
“We’re detectives, aren’t we?” said Toni eagerly. “Give me a few days in London, Agatha.”
“He’d recognise you,” said Agatha.
